


Consonance

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, It's literally just porn, PWP, Shower Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11386608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Who would have pegged Ignis as the type to sing in the shower?





	Consonance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FFXV Rarepairs Week over on tumblr. Day 1 Prompt- Song

Aranea was, when these things mattered, an early riser. She made a point of meeting the dawn and being well at work by the time the sun caught up to her. It was never a natural proclivity so much as a necessity though, the hard work of a good half dozen phone alarms reminding her that duty, even if it was a self-imposed one, called. Without a sun to race to the field, however, the habit has somewhat slipped. Time takes on fuzzy sort of quality when you're living in a state of endless night. Ideas like 'five in the damn morning' take on a touch less importance, in her mind in any case.

Ignis, on the other hand, hasn't caught that memo. Aranea suspects there exist any number of explanations for this. Bits about darkness having a bit less impact in his situation and habits that have been drilled into him since childhood, when waking before any pesky princes could cause unchecked trouble would have been part of his job description. Honestly, Aranea thinks that it's all just hardwired into him, that a man like that has the sort of internal clock that absolutely requires mornings begin at a precise time, with a precise routine, and that something as dire as catching an extra five minutes is grounds for ruining his entire day.

She covers her head with a pillow and curses whatever the true reason is. She might have slept through him crawling out of bed, might have even forgiven that for the quick warmth of lips at her temple while he untangled himself from limbs and blankets and made the quiet drudge to the bathroom. Even the shower, muffled beyond the flimsy door, could have probably passed relatively unobtrusive, if slightly annoying. But then his voice follows, clear and unmistakable, and for a moment she is driven to bolt upright in bed the bed, to force her eyes to adjust to dark and her surroundings to fill in. She thinks, for an adrenaline-fueled moment, that he is hurt, in danger, perhaps attacked. None of these are reasonable concerns, of course, and when the sleep clears properly from her mind she will admit as much.

Especially now that she realizes that he is not hurt at all, but fucking singing. There's a sound that pulls from her throat, something of disbelief and annoyance and maybe just a hint of amusement. She likes to believe that she's grown to know Ignis pretty well, even if their shared nights tend more often not to lead to shared mornings. This bit, however, catches her off guard. She rubs at her eyes, shakes some of the sleep from them, stays silent and half-wrapped in blankets while she listens. It's ridiculous, really, the situation she's found herself in. Ridiculous in all the big ways, realizing that they're sitting at the end of the world and she is becoming very keenly aware that she's managed to go and fall in love of all things, and with a man who has very pointedly dedicated his life to a king nobody may ever see again. Ridiculous in small ways, too, like waking up smelling of sweat and sex and feeling a little bit of longing over a warm spot in the bed beside her. And, most presently, waking up to him singing in the damn shower.

She considers ignoring it, laying in bed and chuckling silently to herself and maybe taking a friendly little dig later, but that feels a hell of a lot like letting him off the hook. And, besides, she's awake now anyway. No use letting that fact go to waste. So she pushes away the blankets and she, with some lingering sleep and just a touch of hesitation, swings her legs over the bed. Her mind is wandering through how exactly she’ll approach the situation, even as she pads across the hotel room, aiming for the source of her new morning alarm. He’s not _bad_ so much as he’s loud and he’s early, an idea that draws a smirk to her lips and that she makes a point to recall for later teasing. The sound, now that she’s waking, now that she’s decided to act on it, is honestly pretty damn endearing. Definitely not anything she’s going to admit to, but enough that her lips have curled to a bit of a smile when she reaches the door.

She doesn’t enter at once, of course. She pauses there and listens further. If he’s heard her coming- and she thinks it’s a pretty wide shot that he might have, with the way his voice would echo from the tiles and mix with the shower’s blast, drowning out any sound she might have produced in her approach- there’s on indication. There’s no missed beat in his song or uncertainty in his voice. All for the best, really. She likes the idea that she’ll be catching him red-handed. So she doesn’t waste any more time in opening the door, inviting herself into the-filled bathroom. She expects that he’ll stop- she isn’t exactly quiet with opening the door or with closing it again behind herself, but he doesn’t seem to take any notice at all, not right away. She can’t help herself, allows a brief laugh at the situation, at his commitment here.

Aranea almost thinks that Ignis doesn’t hear her at all, but after the laughter has bubbled from her lips, she hears the curtain rustle and his hand escapes, extended and dripping and absolutely inviting. She nearly laughs at this as well, certainly shakes her head through the steam as she makes the careful walk over slick tile to join him. It’s something that sits on the edge of comfort for her, but that has become a bit of a norm for the two of them. They may have taken up each other’s company on a purely physical basis, but it was impossible to say it hadn’t evolved at this point, taken on the tone of an actual relationship. Aranea would never have counted herself as seeking out such companionship, but it feels easy with Ignis, it feels natural, and there isn’t a whole lot of regret when she slips the curtain back enough to join him in the shower.

She expected him to stop his singing once she stepped into the tub, but instead he only lowers his voice. He dips his head down and finds a spot to rest their cheeks together, sings with low and heated breaths into her ear while his hands slide to her waist, draw her a little bit closer. Aranea’s whole faces goes warm and her breath catches briefly. There’s a sort of pleased rush that rolls through her spine, through her whole body. His voice is low and a little bit off-tune, the words of his song are absolutely cliché, over-the-top descriptions of love. She should be pushing away, laughing again, but instead it draws her own arms around his waist, makes her heart thump a little bit quicker. So, maybe there’s a little bit more than the beginnings of a relationship here, a little bit more than a simple and physical appreciation. It feels _nice_ and it’s a lot easier not to deny that part.

Ignis continues his song, low and confident voice absolutely buzzing through Aranea’s entire body. His lips brush her cheek, slide, brush the lobe of her ear, and when his song finishes they catch the sensitive bit of skin beneath and press there, warm and lingering. He doesn’t speak, but his hands drag fire up the curve of her spine, draw her closer still until their bodies are flush. Then his fingers work through her hair, find the remaining ties, only a couple loose ones that hadn’t been tugged away the evening prior, and carefully work them out, drop them to the floor one after another. It’s such a tender feeling, Ignis untangling her hair, running his fingers through, neatening her from the efforts of sleep and all else that happened in that bed.

“Did I wake you?” his question might have been innocent, if Aranea didn’t glance up to catch the smile quirking at his lips. She realizes immediately that it had been his intention all along. She makes a sound that borders on annoyance, something she’s absolutely certain he will see right through, so to speak. Which is her own intention, anyway. It’s a game they play, one that’s fun enough and one that works for them. It works with a lot more ease, in any case, than outright confessions. Just as it works that Ignis would sing her out of bed rather than actually confessing he wanted her to join him outright.

“Obviously,” she considers making a careful attempt at getting up on her toes, drawing Ignis’s lips down to meet hers, but there’s already a slick of soap at their feet and Aranea’s morning plans include falling flat on her ass even less than they included being awake at such a god-awful hour, so she instead reaches her hand up to the back of Igis’s neck, draws him down easily to her height with the gesture. They’ve worked out a system in this way, where a certain touch implies a particular one to follow. Never spoken, all natural and by something close to instinct. Ignis, to no surprise, obliges the unspoken request. His hands dip down again, over her shoulders this time, offer a gentle and reassuring squeeze there when they part and while she speaks again, “I’m assuming you plan to make it worth my while.”

“When have I ever let you down, my dear?” Ignis asks the rhetorical, but the question falls a bit on deaf ears, Aranea’s whole damn body focusing in on that bit of endearment. It’s absolutely ridiculous, she decides, the way that she feels when he’s like this. There’s that horrible fluttering in her stomach and color rising to her face and a smile that’s so dumb, so uncontrollable she feels absolutely compelled to hide it in the slick skin of his chest. She feels a chuckle there and she makes another one of her absolutely displeased sounds, though again, she knows better than to think he’ll take it to heart.

“You’re lucky you’ve grown on me, you know,” Aranea endeavors to make her voice just a touch threatening, but she knows damn well that it’s failed. This is more than a joking confession between them, another subtlety that won’t go unnoticed. And, again, it’s simply how they operate. Words like this are as good as outright confessions of love when it comes to the two of them. She feels his hands tighten on her shoulders, registering the words that have gone unspoken but perfectly well-heard there.

“Exceptionally lucky,” his agreement is followed quickly by lips closing down against her throat, the wet heat of his tongue drawing out a sound that is far from the mock displeasure she was offering up. Ignis is good at this, absolutely damnably good. He knows exactly how and where and when to touch her, how to spark her body to life, how to make her crave more of him. She appreciates that and she knows damn well that it’s a mutual arrangement on that front. She can just as easily reduce him to a human embodiment of desire and, hell, she usually does just that. He has a way with words, the same as he does with his lips and his fingers though and Aranea is already well on her way to being undone. Besides, he’s making a point of offering up an ‘apology’ of sorts, certainly for something he absolutely intended to do, and what position is she in not to accept?

“Why don’t you show me, then?” the invitation she offers up is entirely unnecessary, but it has the intended effect all the same. His hands slip down, cup eagerly over her breasts. His mouth finds hers again too, and there is a new flash of heat, of his tongue sliding to part her lips, to work a promising flicker against her own. Even here, he’s making quiet promises of of what’s to come, giving her some of those words-without-words. And, more importantly, he’s already drawing those first tendrils of pleasure from her. His thumbs glide over her nipples, draw them full and hard and then attend to them with rough little circles. His fingers press firm, still eager, into the softness of her breasts and it draws her to press closer, to encourage more attention to the sensitivity there.

Ignis is absolutely listening to that pseudo-command. He doesn’t speak at all while he turns them, gets Aranea’s back pressed against the tile wall, sends shivers absolutely coursing through her. His mouth traces lines that she knows are second nature to him by now; heated kisses work down her throat, between her breasts. His hands shift, drift lower down her sides, over her hips and across her midriff while his lips close around her nipple, teeth grazing, tugging lightly. It draws a soft sound, pleased and encouraging from her lips. Ignis, apparently, takes this reaction to heart. His hand slides smooth between her thighs, parts them with a gentle stroke. His movements are slow, almost reverent, but absolutely heated. Absolutely what Aranea wants. She lets her hips forward slightly, another encouragement, one that all but guides his fingers upward to explore a quickly growing wet heat.

“I’m inclined to believe you’re not _too_ disappointed to be roused so early,” Ignis favors her with a smile that is nothing short of wicked when his mouth parts from her. His head tilts upward too, unquestionably displaying the expression. Aranea has an inclination to give him a little shove, to tell him to shut the hell up- all play, of course- but his fingers slide a touch deeper into her, curl in a way that is nothing short of expert, and any true annoyance with the cocky attitude seems to slip away. He’s honestly far too good at that.

“I’m inclined to believe you have better things to be doing with that smart mouth,” she does manage to counter him all the same, and it’s enough to draw another one of those absolutely endearing little chuckles. She smiles down at the reaction, just for a moment, because he takes the words to heart and his lips are working down her midsection with a quick and pointed sort of heat, a slip of tongue that is absolutely perfectly set against sensitive skin. Her head tilts back to the tile and she sighs, presses her hips forward again. Another little cue, really. His thumb parts her, presses light circles over her clit while his lips continue to move downward, his face brushing soon through soft curls.

“That’s better,” she says it in a voice that’s all breath, utterly pleased by Ignis’s attention, by the care he’s taking here. His free hand shifts from her hip, cups briefly at her ass and then lowers, lifts her thigh so that she can hook a leg back around him. It’s something of a precarious position, but he supports her well, moves that hand now to brace her in place. And his face slips lower still, so his tongue can glide with a familiar sort of precision to replace his thumb, to work a heavy and absolutely electric wet heat against her. It’s enough to make Aranea’s toes curl, to have her hand grasping at the back of his head and pressing him in with something already bordering on desperation.

And Ignis, well, he’s nothing if not an eager lover, one who takes her cues well and who has learned her body, honed in on her preferences over time. He knows, and takes his own great pleasure, in making her feel utterly fucking fantastic. Aranea doesn’t think it’s much wonder she’s grown so damn fond of him. His tongue presses wide and flat against her, drags heavy while his fingers find rhythm, still curling and pressing inward, drawing an absolutely immediate response from her body. Her breathing is already coming in quick, pleased gasps. She’s wet and hot and absolutely throbbing little bursts of pleasure against him. Ignis is more than capable of holding her in this place, overwhelming her entirely until she’s gripping at his hair, writing and screaming. She realizes almost at once that it isn’t his intention this time, however.

His tongue lifts, flicks over her, absolutely batters her with rough shots of pleasure. He’s moving directly for the payoff, absolutely focusing on the direct route. Aranea appreciates it, encourages it with a gasp here, a moan there. Ignis makes a sound of his own, something that rumbles against her, that echoes right back. It doesn’t take long at all, really, before she’s pressing into his face from both sides, heel digging at his back and hand pressing into his head until she’s whispering his name, frantic and pleased. Those first rolls of orgasm grip through her, have her contracting and twitching around him, have her taking leave of any rational thought while he works through it, while he tongues over her until she is wrenching him away, moved to absolute hypersensitivity.

He is absolutely gentle when he unhooks Aranea’s leg from behind his back. Ignis has a way about him that makes her feel like she’s being worshiped with each touch and this is no exception. He shifts his hands, his weight in a way that implies reverence while he stands. He braces a hand against the shower wall, keeps himself pressed close, and instead of straightening completely, he stops to trail kisses again, this time up her throat, working his way to her mouth. She tastes herself on him and a fresh wave of arousal hits. It’s his hips that are pressing inward now, his erection full and heated against her thigh.

“Such a gentleman, putting me first,” it’s a tease, really. Aranea is well-aware that Ignis takes his own pleasure, in part at least, from giving hers. That much is obvious enough from the full, throbbing heat when her hand moves to wrap around him. He’s absolutely eager, even if he’s as restrained as ever, just another thing that she has to believe is hardwired into him. It makes her smile, a trait that she really is horribly fond of. Ignis, as it turns out, has a great many traits she’s horribly fond of. It seems enough to leave her in fits of confusion, when she turns all soft and affectionate with him, but even that seems natural.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he speaks between, again, putting his mouth to good use. Aranea is quite sure he’s leaving a mark at the curve between throat and shoulder, something to serve as a reminder very literally only to her of the pleasant wake-up call. A brief, amused sound catches in her throat with his words. She really does appreciate so many aspects of him, and such admittedly silly and perfectly _not_ dirty talk in the midst of their play sits neatly in the list. Her grip on him tightens slightly and she works a good stroke or two over his length, thumb brushing over the wet tip.

“A smart one, too. Let’s not make you wait any longer, hmm?” she releases him, but only to slide her hand, to guide his hips into alignment with hers. He is, of course, entirely capable of doing this on his own, but there’s a sort of control that Aranea takes great pleasure in holding in these situations. Ignis, too, has never seemed particularly displeased with those roles and he is happy to let her guide him, to allow her hand to work over him again before she whispers an encouragement into his ear. Now, it’s all swift motions, all heat and quick thinking on Ignis’s part. It’s him lifting her without a hint of effort to the act, pressing her back flat to the wall and pressing himself rough and very close to frantic inside her.

There’s no apology there- he knows that this is just how Aranea likes it. However much she appreciates, maybe even admires his restraint when it comes to the day-to-day, she takes no shortage of thrill by the way he shrugs it off in the heat of the moment. She’s absolutely elated in the way he’s driving into her now, rough and heedless, bordering just on the edge of control. Her legs wrap tight around his waist and her fingers dig at his back, leave heavy pink lines running across his shoulder blades. It’s enough to draw out a groan, something bordering between pain and pleasure. Aranea, too, knows exactly how _he_ likes this, and she digs her nails in again, pulls another set of lines, another pleased sound.

She lets herself get lost in it, in the feeling of her back sliding in a rough rhythm against the wall, in the feeling of Ignis moving inside her, a rhythm that’s turning quicker with each passing thrust, that’s drawing heavy, gasping breaths from both of them, that’s making her heels dig into him and making her whole body surge for the pleasure of it, all rough and urgent, coming so quickly to a head. She gets lost in the warmth of his body pressed impossibly close, in the endless planes of skin moving together, and in the fact that he, impossibly, is going to bring her over the edge again right along with him.

Aranea thinks, in this of all moments, that she might be properly falling in love with Ignis. She thinks there might be something to what she’s feeling right now, the waves of affection that go beyond the absolutely shattering pleasure. There may even be something to the fact that they’ve already come to know each other so well, that they seem so naturally equipped for one another, in this and so many other regards. She is, just a touch shamefully, considering exactly how this makes her feel (she settles on, shockingly enough, content) when he finishes in her, when he presses those last dis-rhythmic and desperate thrusts. The rough motion, the heat filling her, the way his body tenses and then relaxes, it fills her with another, different sort of pleasure, something perhaps less intense but more lingering, something that has her legs feeling just a touch weak when Ignis lowers her to the ground again.

A moment, and then several more, of silence pass between them. Aranea has her arms wrapped around him still, and this is a reaction that is utterly new. She could easily pass it off as waiting for her legs to return to her, waiting for the trembling pleasure to pass entirely, but it’s not that at all. It’s her cheek pressed to his chest, her eyes neatly shut while she listens to the staccato of his heart. It’s her hands, running gentle and soothing over the desperate lines she clawed into his back. It’s pleased sighs and that same content feeling she’s settled on and it’s her very pointedly not moving away, not separating them. Then again, Ignis isn’t pulling back, either. Come to think of it, he wasn’t pulling back last night, when they drifted to sleep still tangled together, sticky and sweaty and properly exhausted. He wasn’t leaving at all, not unless she asked it of him. Maybe there were a few unspoken words that she had managed to miss. She would usually curse herself for such an oversight, but she’s smiling instead.

“I take it you’re forgiving me for waking you,” Ignis keeps his voice low when he speaks, a little playful quality dancing through his words. Aranea doesn’t bother to make that half-annoyed sound she’s so fond of. She tilts her head instead, lets her lips touch against his chest. He’s the one who sighs this time, that same content sound.

“I suppose,” she pauses, considers he words. There is every intention here of deep implications hidden behind light and simple thoughts. She needs to make it clear that she’s well aware that he intended to wake her, that she doesn’t mind as much, that she can get used to greeting mornings-that-aren’t-quite-mornings in this way. It’s all a lot of mental gymnastics between them, to reach words that could be swapped for such simpler, more straightforward ones. They are, after all, both perfectly capable adults, both grown enough to know precisely what they’re feeling and what they desire. Where, though, is the fun in _that_?

“You can just ask next time, you know. No need for all the serenading,” Her words earn a thoughtful sound from Ignis, a sort of confirmation that they’ve fallen properly into place. She smiles again at this, lips still pressed to his chest, a point made that he can _feel_ the expression. There’s a shift, his hand moving upward to play through her hair again, something gentle and affectionate. Something she absolutely would never tolerate from anyone else.

“Alright. Next time I’ll ask.”


End file.
